


Cornerstone

by petrovasfire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrovasfire/pseuds/petrovasfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of <i>course</i> Lydia isn't jealous of Malia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornerstone

Stiles is walking towards her locker; towards _her_ , with a grin so wide it almost breaks his face in half. Intuitively, Lydia smiles back. She turns round to shut her locker door only to see Malia leaning back against hers with a grin that matches Stiles’.

And naturally, Lydia feels her face heat up, briefly mortified as she watches Stiles’ gait come to a halt in front of Malia Tate. Or… Malia Hale. _Hale as in Peter; Peter as in psychopath_ , Lydia reminds herself, shuddering. She knows it isn’t fair to judge—after all, it’s not the girl’s fault that she's Peter’s daughter. But the more Lydia looks at her, the more she sees Peter’s features and the more distance Lydia puts in between them.

It doesn't help that their lockers are situated right next to each other, though.

Stiles murmurs a soft _Hi_ to Malia, but the were-coyote doesn’t greet him back. At least, not verbally. Instead, without any warning—and proper consideration of the surrounding people, Lydia thinks bitterly—the were-coyote curves an arm around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. A long, deep kiss that would leave anyone breathless, especially and unsurprisingly Stiles Stilinski. From the way he froze when Malia’s lips met his, it’s apparent that he enjoyed it.

It’s not so apparent, however, that Lydia did not. In fact, right now she feels very, very sick, and she swears she can feel the bile rising to her throat.

“Uh, so.” Stiles rubs the back of his neck—awkwardly, just like he does everything else. “How’re you doing? With your… you know.”

“My… what?”

“You know”—he leans in closer, and Lydia is convinced that if they kiss again she will really hurl this time—“your thing.”

“So, it’s a _thing_ now? You’re hanging with werewolves, Stiles, and you can’t even say the word ‘coyote’?”

“What?” Stiles blinks, still dumbfounded at the fact that Malia kissed him that he’s only just catching on to the fact that she’s mad when he sees her arms crossed against her chest and her forehead creased. “What are you talking about?”

“Figure it out, asshat.”

When she stalks away from him, Stiles looks even more confused than when he started out that Lydia has to stifle a laugh. He turns to look at her in surprise, as if only noticing her for the first time. Lydia tries—and fails—not to let that supposition bother her.

“For the record,” she says, curling her lips into knowing smile, “assuming that she’s just on her period will only prove her right.”

“About what?”

“About you being a complete asshat.” Lydia is grinning as she mutters the word, contrasting with Malia’s prior slur. Her smile eases into compassion. “Which you’re not, obviously.”

“Thanks, Lyd.”

* * *

Lydia decides to approach the subject matter gently. After all, she’s excellent at subtlety. Malia is fumbling for her books—very clumsily, too, Lydia can’t help but notice—in her locker, muttering _Damn it_ for the fourth time in the past five minutes. Casually and almost offhandedly, Lydia rests her shoulder against her own locker and observes the were-coyote as she groans at the mess inside her locker.

Naturally, Lydia can’t help but survey Malia’s style either, and Lydia has to award herself points for there. Eight years of walking on all fours must have completely destroyed Malia’s sense of clothing—if she’d ever had one. Not that Lydia is comparing herself with Malia, because there’s no competition between them. Of course there _isn’t_.

“So…” Lydia fidgets with her fingers, “what’s the deal with you and Stiles, anyway?”

“He kissed me,” Malia replies with ease. She doesn’t see the astounded look on Lydia’s face; or if she does, she chooses to ignore it. “Well, technically, I kissed him. But he kissed me back.”

“Oh.” There’s nothing else to say, really.

“Yeah, it was at Eichen House.”

“Romantic,” Lydia retorts, her voice sounding snarkier than she means it to.

“It was. We did stuff.”

“Stuff?”

Malia finally gets the hang of balancing more than one book in her hands, and Lydia hesitantly shuts the locker door for her as the were-coyote flashes her a grin before walking off to her next class, leaving Lydia suddenly doubtful of her subtlety skills.

* * *

Stiles is walking—no, staggering along the corridor, looking dazed and vacant; a hollow expression that Lydia recognises. She feels her heart lurch because it’s not a good sign. From the bend of the staircase, she watches as Stiles breathes heavily, each ragged breath nervous and fidgety. She can see his fingers shaking and, almost instantly, Lydia’s own hands are trembling, too. She’s just about to march towards him when she notices a beaming Malia emerge from her locker and wrap her hands around his arm.

Malia’s smile vanishes when she finally notices the state that Stiles is in; limbs quivering, lips twitching and forehead branded with sweat.

“Stiles?” Malia’s voice rises an octave as panic fills it. “What’s wrong?”

“P-panic at-attack…”

“What do I do?!” Stiles only replies with more heavy breathing. “Please, Stiles, tell me what to do!”

“Ly… Lyd—”

Impulsively, Malia swiftly rams her lips against his mouth. Stiles gasps against her lips as she carries on kissing him, and Lydia doesn’t think she can witness any more lip-on-lip action between Stiles and the were-coyote without getting sick. What bothers her even more is that Malia knows exactly what to do when he has a panic attack; something that she thought only _she_ knew. Something that had made Stiles regard her as smart when she’d told him about it.

Suddenly Lydia doesn’t feel so smart anymore.

As if all the sense in the world is coming back to him, Stiles jerks his head back and pulls away from the kiss. He feels his skin boil with rage; a kind of anger that he doesn’t feel very often, that he doesn’t even know _why_ he feels. The only thing he knows is that _this_ —Malia kissing him to stop his panic attack—feels wrong; out of place.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I… I don’t know.” Malia frowns, perplexed at his annoyance.

“No, you _don’t_.”

“I—”

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Stiles growls, his voice hoarse and raucous and leaving Malia speechless. “ _Ever_.”

As he walks away, eyes fixed ahead, Lydia realises that for the first time, she can’t tell what he’s thinking. It’s strange not being able to read his face so easily, especially since their thoughts have been overlapping for the past few weeks, and the not-knowing bothers her a lot more than it should.

* * *

She looks for him in the parking lot, but he’s not at his jeep. Instead, Lydia finds him leaning against _her_ car. He seems to be waiting for someone, but she knows it's  her and not Malia, because why would he be waiting for the were-coyote by the banshee’s car?

Stiles lifts his hand as a miserable attempt to wave at her, and she smiles back. When she reaches her car, Stiles doesn't budge from leaning position. She glances at his face and she just knows he’s about to say something, and so she waits for him to speak.

“I had a panic attack today,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, as though he’s just putting it out there. A simple, meaningless statement.

“I know,” Lydia replies in kind. “I saw.”

“And you didn’t try to do anything about it?” The hurt look on his face is too plain for her to ignore.

“I thought Malia handled it pretty cleverly.” After a pause, she says, "You know, I think you kind of owe her an apology."

Stiles doesn’t say anything, and Lydia decides to lean against her car next to him. She glances down at their feet pressed firmly on the ground, and for once, she lets herself believe that she’s human; that they’re _both_ just human, and it really can't get any better than that.

“Nothing happened, you know.” Stiles turns to face her. “In Eichen House.”

“Really? No… stuff?”

“Well, we kissed.”

Lydia waits for him to say more, but there's a lingering unwary silence before Stiles speaks up again.

“What?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “We kissed, like, once.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine, so it was more than just once. But that’s it. We didn’t… _do_ anything.”

“Stiles.” Lydia swallows. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, you know.”

He’s silent, and Lydia finds that she can’t read him again. After getting so used to recognising what he’s thinking, it’s starting to get a bit annoying not being able to.

“You can kiss whomever you want to, Stiles. I’m not going to stop you. Why on earth would I stop you?” Lydia’s tongue is just juggling the same words, placing them here and there. “I don’t play that kind of role in your life.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re my anchor.”

“Your what?” Lydia wants to brush it off with a laugh, but after… _everything_ , the word ‘anchor’ and Stiles’ confirmation that she is indeed _his_ , doesn’t really feel like something she wants to joke about.

“My anchor,” he repeats. “You pull me back, Lydia. When I go over the edge, you pull me back.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lydia swallows again, but this time the lump is there to stay. “I mean, Deaton could’ve said that just so—”

Without hesitating, Stiles tugs gently on her wrist and sweeps his lips across hers. It happens so suddenly, so quickly; that the knife-edge sensation that glides through Lydia’s spine is breakneck and sharp. Stiles knows she feels it because he's feeling it too, and lately they've both been wearing more than just the same tired expression; their feelings are connected, too.

Stiles pulls away fast enough for Lydia to wonder if she’d only imagined the kiss, and she blinks. Stiles laughs at the bemused expression she wears, triumphing over the fact that for the first time, he's the one who manages to take her aback.

“Yeah, Lydia. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she breathes, still stunned, “good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know Malia is not a bitch and I apologise if I made her seem like one, but I assumed that her lack of experience in relationships would lead her to jump to the conclusion that Stiles is her go-to boyfriend, especially after their stunt in Eichen House.


End file.
